Truth is Stranger Than Fiction
by snooky-9093
Summary: An epilogue to SUSFU. And so ends (this time for real), my series of Boswell and Garrett stories. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_a/n I won't be discussing postwar Germany and what happened to rank and file members of the Nazi party, etc, in this chapter. We all know that most escaped justice; the Western allies turning their attention to the Soviet Union. _

_Germany, 1952_

Wolfgang Hochstetter was one of the few lower-level echelon members of the Gestapo to not escape justice. In retrospect, he realized his obsession with Colonel Robert Hogan was his downfall. If he had burned his files and not buried them so that a German shepherd working for the wrong side could sniff them out, he would have been one of the many German civilians ignored by the approaching Allied army. After a quick investigation, his cousin's home would have most likely been used as an Allied headquarters; he would have had to subsist on substandard rations for a while, but he would have been free.

Instead, Hochstetter was taken back to Germany, and sentenced to fifteen years in prison. He was let out on good behavior after 7 years, and thanks to connections, was given a desk job in the new German police force. The Allies were more concerned with the Cold War and Korea at this point; than rank and file members of the Nazi party. The few friends that had survived the last days in Berlin or Hammelburg, were swallowed up by the bureaucracy, and made new lives for themselves.

The millions of displaced persons were eventually housed in transit camps, and then repatriated or sent on their way. The Jewish survivors were not treated as well. Even Hochstetter felt a bit of guilt now and then, but he did not dwell on it. After all, as an investigator, he was not involved in the round ups. Besides, he had no idea of the extent of the atrocities, or so he convinced himself. Others in his social circle felt the same. Many, including him, blamed Hitler and his crowd for all the suffering that came from the war, including the utter destruction of their homeland, and the Iron Curtain that had fallen over Europe. No one would admit that the German public should also be held responsible.

Hochstetter was assigned to Essen, an industrial city north of Düsseldorf. The city had been the target of many air raids, and was heavily damaged. It was not a particularly pleasant place to be. He had hoped to move to Heidelberg, but his record left him little choice.

On a sunny day in April, a handcuffed man was dragged in front of Hochstetter, and shoved into the seat by his desk. Hochstetter sighed, and pulled his typewriter closer as he prepared to write a report.

"Caught this drifter shoplifting," the arresting officer stated. "He has a record." He handed Hochstetter some paperwork. "And he specifically asked for you."

The suspect gazed at Hochstetter's name plate, and a thin smile came over his face.

"It's your damn fault," he said quietly. "That's why I tracked you down. Our records are still good. It was as easy as taking candy from a baby." He then attempted to butt Hochstetter with his body, shoving the officer off his chair.

"Get control of yourself!" The arresting officer hauled his suspect back into chair by the desk, and then cuffed him to the arm of the chair. "Now I'm charging you with assaulting a police officer."

Hochstetter picked himself up off the floor, brushed off his jacket, and sat down. "My fault? For what? And do I know you?" Hochstetter glanced at the paperwork. The man had just been released from prison. The name did not look familiar. He patiently folded his arms across his chest and waited for an explanation.

"If you hadn't sent out that information about those men posing as Gestapo and helping that damn colonel, I wouldn't have been arrested, and my sister wouldn't have been executed."

"I have no clue what you're babbling about." Hochstetter looked at the arresting officer, who shrugged.

The perpetrator wanted to slug the officer, but all he could do was continue to explain the connection, as if speaking with a child. "You sent our contact information about two men posing as Gestapo and SS agents, including drawings. They worked at the same place as my sister." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "She was a sleeper in London. I worked with her."

"That's why he was in jail." The arresting officer, who was listening with complete fascination, told Hochstetter.

"Go on." Hochstetter prodded. "But, you're talking nonsense. And I don't recognize you or your name."

"You wouldn't. We were sleepers, like I said. Working for someone else. We got caught. My sister had this ridiculous scheme to kidnap those two and then get us to Argentina."

"You're insane."

"If you got caught, why did you get a prison sentence, and your sister get executed?" the arresting officer asked.

"The bitch was going to leave me. I told them everything. Of course, if she had let me kill those two and dump them in the river when I suggested it, we wouldn't have been caught then, would we?"

_This man is too stupid to realize what he just said,_ Hochstetter thought. "Call round and see if we can get hold of his file. Take him to holding until we get more information, and then send it up to the captain. And why again did you want to see me?"

"I'm telling you, when I get out of here, you'll be sorry. You should have arrested those nuts at Stalag 13 when you had the chance!" the man yelled as he was led out of the room.

Upon hearing those two words, Hochstetter rose. "Bring him back." The man was re-shackled into the chair. "Tell me everything," Hochstetter ordered. "Don't leave out any details." _Drawings? Could it be?_

"What's in it for me?" George asked.

"I'll leave out your previous conviction on the report. And I won't press assault charges."

George nodded in agreement. "They knew each other."

"Who?" Hochstetter began taking copious notes.

"That colonel and those two spies."

"When?"

"April, 1945."

"But Hogan was in France, at a Lucky Strike camp," Hochstetter stated, although he now suspected this was not true.

"No he wasn't. Maria recognized him. And they knew each other," George said.

"You're sure?"

"One hundred percent."

At that bit of information, Hochstetter stood up. He grabbed his coat from the rack. "Book this nut," he said to his underling. "I have to go somewhere. And let American intelligence know he's violated his parole."

"Wait," George said to Hochstetter as the other officer uncuffed him from the chair and gave him a shove. "You said we had a deal."

"Bah," Hochstetter said. "I lied."

_Outside Hammelburg (the one near Düsseldorf, not in Bavaria)_

Brian Olsen was walking his German shepherd along the perimeter of what was once Luft Stalag 13; a small work camp located near the small town of Hammelburg, in the western part of Germany. After the war, he had remained behind; helping to sort out who was who, and to make sure members of the underground were not arrested or harmed. After also seeing to his relatives in the area, he returned to the United States with his fiancée, Oskar Schnitzer's niece, Heidi. They then returned to Germany. Olsen now worked for Army intelligence, while his wife took care of their first child, a girl. He paused near a tree stump and sat down. Taking out a sandwich, he offered a piece to his dog Schultzie, who eagerly swallowed the morsel whole. "This is where we used to sneak in and out," he told his pet. "Your mother knew." The dog wagged its tail; then lay down in the leaves, content. Standing up, Olsen strolled over to the fence line. Pieces of the barbed wire were still intact, but the interior of the camp looked neglected. The guard towers were down, and the remaining buildings were in need of repair or bull-dozing. Either way, the camp would eventually no longer exist. It was just a matter of time. Seeing that everything was calm, he walked back towards the road. As he turned in the right direction, Schultzie's hair stood up and he growled. "What is it, boy?" Olsen knelt and gave the dog a pat on its head.

Hochstetter no longer owned a vehicle, so he took the train down to Hammelburg and got a cab to take him to the front gate of the stalag. He paid the driver, and then stood and looked, oblivious to the man and the dog that approached him from the rear.

"Ahem," Olsen said. _Right on time_

Hochstetter turned around to see a young American lieutenant, and a large and fierce-looking German shepherd standing in front of him.

"What are you doing here?"Hochstetter asked.

Smiling pleasantly, Olsen replied. "Taking my dog for a walk, and getting a good look at my former prison."

At this, Hochstetter, who did not recognize the American, perked up.

"You were a prisoner here?"

"Yes, sir. And you are Wolfgang Hochstetter, formerly head of the Hammelburg Gestapo office. What are you doing here?"

Wary, Hochstetter stepped back and remained silent.

"It's no secret. You used to show up here a lot. In that black car of yours. We could hear your yelling all the way across the compound. Word got around."

"I'm in the police force," Hochstetter replied. "I have discovered a connection between a prisoner of mine and this camp. Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Olsen. So Hochstetter, what kind of connection would that be?"

"Ah, a couple of spies came to the camp posing as Gestapo, and then they posed as SS. And they were involved with Hogan. And he was involved with them. Were you aware that this area of Germany had the most sabotage during the war?"

"No."

"It's a fact. And Hogan was responsible. He was the ringleader."

Olsen laughed. "And how would he manage that?"

"Good question. He had to have a way in and out of camp. Tunnels, the guards. You knew didn't you? In fact, I would bet you were involved." Hochstetter stroked his mustache. "Although, I never saw you hanging around with those others that were always following your colonel around like puppy dogs."

Olsen ignored the disparaging comment about his friends and fellow bunkmates. "I would think that if he had a way in and out of camp, he wouldn't have come back. We needed all the pilots we could get. As for tunnels, as soon as we could dig 'em, Klink's ferrets sniffed them out. We bribed the guards. Everyone did. But not to get out. To get more food, hot water. The usual. So what do you hope to find here?"

"I don't know." Hochstetter stared at the camp. It looked desolate and neglected.

"You can't get in. It's locked," Olsen told him. "I heard they're going to raze it, and use the land to build housing." He could see Hochstetter was becoming agitated, and decided to end the conversation. "Look, the war's over. Why don't I go back to town with you, and buy you a beer. I was in that camp for almost three years, and the only hanky-panky going on was between the colonel and the secretaries."

"But I was with the Gestapo," Hochstetter countered. "Now why would an American soldier want to hang out with me?" he asked, hoping that Olsen would not renege on the invite.

"Like I said, Hochstetter. The war is over. We have other enemies now."

Believing that his still formidable interrogation skills would get at the truth, Hochstetter agreed to Olsen's invitation. Hopefully, he thought, Olsen's lips would loosen after a few drinks.

_Paris_

"Truth is stranger than fiction."

"Well that's a given. Garcon, une autre bière, s'il vous plait." Todd Boswell snapped his fingers. "Et une autre pour mon ami."

"No. That's the title of my book."

"What book?"

"The one I started back in '45," Garrett reminded him.

"You can't put half the things you should in the book, Mitch. It's still classified. The book will be boring."

"I'd expect you of all people to support me in my artistic endeavors," Garrett said, half-joking.

Boswell spit out his drink. "Look what you did." He grabbed a napkin and started wiping the stain off his tie. "No one wants to read or hear about the war anymore. Europe and the Pacific want to forget it, and Americans are more interested in television and moving to the suburbs."

"I'm not writing about the war, per se. It's going to have more of an international spy flavor. Two dashing and handsome diplomatic attachés recruited as spies, find themselves caught up in international intrigue in prewar Germany; then find themselves fighting evil as undercover agents in occupied Europe. It has Hollywood blockbuster written all over it." (1)

Boswell patted his friend's hand. "You've been spending too much time at cushy embassy assignments. Try working in Berlin, and you wouldn't have any time to chase after windmills."

"If you're so busy, how come you had time to come to Paris?"

"All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy." As Boswell finished his sentence he spied a very attractive woman taking a seat at a table several yards away. A waiter quickly placed a drink next to the woman and left. "Observe, my artistic friend." He walked over to the table, and said a few words. Garrett laughed as the contents of the glass landed in his friend's face.

A chastened Boswell returned to the table, as Garrett lifted his eyebrows. "So, you're not writing about?"

Garrett interrupted Boswell before he mentioned the camps. "I can't go there. I feel like we should have done something, but no one wanted to listen." He sighed. "No. I can't stay an agent forever. I want to retire eventually. I'll embellish on the more exciting aspects, and the part intelligence played in winning the war. What I can without getting arrested that is. Speaking of which, do you know when Papa Bear's operation will be declassified?"

* * *

(1) Ian Fleming beat Garrett to it. His first James Bond novel, "Casino Royale," was published in 1952


	2. Chapter 2

_"Truth is Stranger than Fiction"_

_Chapter 2_

_The Pentagon_

"Declassified?" General Robert Hogan would have lost his lunch if he wasn't so disciplined. As it was, he almost choked on his coffee. "Way to just let it all out at once."

General Butler grinned. "There's no easier way to let it out."

"I don't know." Hogan was still reluctant to let the cat out of the bag. He was not only concerned about the effect of the publicity on the men under his command, but also the safety and effect on those members of the Underground that had worked on the operation.

"You don't have a choice in the matter," Butler said. "It seems like people with more medals than you and I combined, and politicians who don't know any better, think this is a good time to spotlight wartime cooperation between the Brits and the Yanks. That, and show up the Russians and Chinese, and so on and so forth. Oh, and get people's minds off Korea. You knew that it was going to come to this sooner or later."

Frankly, Hogan was relieved to be home in one piece, as were those men under his command. They all wanted to get back to their pre-war lives and most of them had. He sighed, "I understand, but can I ask one favor?"

"Name it."

"I want everyone we can reach notified by phone call or telegram before word gets out."

Butler nodded, "I figured you would ask that. We are already gathering the records. I assume you want to make some of these calls personally?"

* * *

Olsen almost dropped the phone. He cleared his throat, and absentmindedly stood at attention as he addressed his former commander. "But, General. I just spent an entire day with Hochstetter, trying to convince him that he was crazy. I think I deserve extra combat pay for that. Or at least a medal. Did you know he's a friendly drunk? Who would have thought?"

"Um, Olsen. What are you talking about?"

"Well, it was quite a coincidence. Remember those two German spies who kidnapped Boswell and Garrett in London?"

"Sure do."

"Well, the brother tracked Hochstetter down. Seems Hochstetter had sent those drawings to that lady spy's handler, and her brother blamed Hochstetter for everything. He wanted revenge, I guess. Hochstetter took off for Stalag 13. Our agents in Essen gave me a head's up."

Hogan ran his fingers through his hair. "Hang tight, Olsen. I'm heading over to Europe before this comes out in the press."

"Yes, sir." After hanging up the phone, Olsen turned to his wife. "Sweetheart, I think we're going to have to move back to the states."

Olsen's wife and in-laws knew about his work in Stalag 13. His wife, Heidi Schnitzer, was Oskar Schnitzer's niece, Her entire family worked with the German underground. Olsen's immediate family, as well as the families of the other men in camp, were totally oblivious to the danger their brothers, fathers, sons and uncles faced while imprisoned in Germany. Olsen, preferred to tell his parents and sister in person. Preferably after treating them to a very nice dinner at an expensive restaurant.

* * *

This was the situation Andrew Carter faced after receiving a phone call from General Hogan. Carter had an easy time transitioning to civilian life. He had returned home to a hero's welcome, and quickly took advantage of all the GI bill had to offer. After finishing college with a degree in chemistry, he was offered a position with the DuPont Chemical Company in Delaware. While there, he met the girl of his dreams and settled down. His wife, Ann, took the news better than he had hoped.

"I always knew there was more to your time in that camp, darling." Ann gave her husband a hug. "You talk during your sleep. And you have nightmares. I'm so proud of you."

"I killed a lot of people, Ann." Tears began forming in Carter's eyes. "All those explosions I set."

"I know. So did your colonel. He dropped bombs. You were fighting for something. And people die." She began stroking his hair. "I think you had better tell your family in person."

"I'll ask for a leave of absence. You'll come with?" Andrew was afraid to be there alone with his family. He had no idea how they would react. "I could use the back-up."

"Of course," Ann answered. "Besides, if you don't show up with their grandchild, your parents will have your hide."

* * *

Newkirk didn't have to travel far to tell his folks the truth about his wartime experiences. After the war, he had considered moving to the United States, when Colonel Hogan had offered to sponsor him and his family. The British economy was in ruins, and prospects weren't good. However, his parents and sister refused to leave their home, and he refused to leave them behind. He stuck it out, and after several long and hard years of scrimping and saving, he and some old friends opened up a pub in the East End. His friends and girlfriends would have to wait to hear the news right before it was made public, but he was allowed to spill the beans, as Hogan put it, to his parents, sister and brother-in-law.

His mother slapped him across the face.

"Mum, what did you do that for?" Newkirk said, rubbing his cheek.

"You 'ad me believe you were out of the war til the end. And all that time, you could 'ave been killed!"

"You never lie to your mother, son," his father added for good measure.

"This was a secret operation," John, Mavis' husband, added, trying to be helpful, as his wife stood by, rendered speechless by the news.

"I have a mind to slap that colonel of yours as well."

"Mum, he's a general now. And we were all volunteers."

His mother sat down on the couch and began to cry. "All those years, and you could 'ave been sent home." She sniffed, reached for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Her daughter sat next to her, and tried to console her mother.

"It wasn't that simple." Newkirk looked at John, who shook his head and offered a smile and a shrug.

Newkirk's father looked at his wife, and then said quietly. "I'm sorry. Give her some time. It's a shock, that's all." He grasped his son's arms. "I'm real proud of you, Peter. Real proud."

* * *

When the phone rang in his radio and television repair shop, Kinch was up to his elbows in a busted picture tube. "Can you get that?" Kinch's younger brother and co-worker, Daniel, was at the front of the store, working on some minor bookkeeping. He put down the ledger and turned to the phone hanging from the wall. "Kinchloe's. No, this is his brother. I see. It's good to hear from you. Everything all right? That's good. Hang on, sir. I'll get him for you." Daniel placed the receiver down and poked his head in the back. "Got a minute to speak to General Hogan, bro?"

Kinch smiled, and wiped off his hands. "I'm coming." He had heard his brother's end of the conversation, and figured that this was just a friendly, thought I would pick up the phone and see how you were doing call. "Hey, General. How's the family?"

"Fine. Just calling to let you know that you know what is going to hit the fan." Hogan said.

Kinch knew exactly what the general was referring to, as they had discussed the scenario many times since the end of the war. He sighed. "How far are they going?" Kinch was worried about the reaction if the entire operation was spilled. It wouldn't look too good to have a Negro as a second in command, although he was reluctant to say so.

"I'm trying to keep the lid on the chain of command, if that's what you're worried about, Kinch. But you should get full credit." Hogan silently cursed the state of race relations in the country, but it was his friend's choice, and he would abide by his wishes.

"I think I'd rather keep it between us, sir."

"All right. You've got a couple of weeks. For now you can tell your family and no one else, got it?"

"Yes, sir." Kinch handed the phone back to his brother, who raised his eyebrows. "Sit down, Dan. I have something to tell you."

Twenty minutes later, the picture tube forgotten, Daniel and Kinch closed the store, and headed back to their neighborhood, where their families and parents all lived within several blocks of one another. Fortunately, Kinch's mother did not see the need to slap her son. Instead, she picked up a photo of Kinch in his dress uniform. He was smiling, the medals telling a story that up until this moment, she and her husband never knew. That evening, after dinner, Kinch filled in the missing pieces.

* * *

Twiddling his thumbs, LeBeau sat a bit impatiently in an outer office of the American embassy in Paris. He stared placidly at the paintings of the wall, and watched the secretary file papers in the filing cabinet located by the door of the inner office. The sign on the door said cultural attaché, but LeBeau knew better. The occupant was not a cultural attaché, but an intelligence agent assigned to Paris, and LeBeau was asked to inform this agent of some interesting news.

"Louis!" Mitch Garrett enthusiastically shook the Frenchman's hand and ushered him into his office. "Hold my calls," he told his secretary before he shut the door. "Have a seat. Coffee?"

LeBeau shook his head, knowing that Garrett's version of coffee was comparable to drinking burnt rubber, although he had to admit, it wasn't as bad as the coffee they had at Stalag 13. After being back in France, he was spoiled.

"Hey, guess who's in town?" Garrett asked as he poured himself a cup.

"Boswell." Seeing the look on Garrett's face, Louis chuckled. "I have my sources."

"He needed a break."

"Well, this is the place," Louis replied, understanding. "I hope he'll be by the restaurant."

"He did mention that he would make the time," Garrett said. "So, you aren't here for a social call. Planning on leaving for the states and looking for a reference?"

"No." This had been an ongoing joke between the two men since they were reacquainted several years after the war when Garrett was assigned to France. He had made an effort to find LeBeau, to see how the former POW was making out. "Just yesterday I received a call from General Hogan."

"Aha. How is the old devil?"

LeBeau grinned. "A bit, how do you say it? Fachatted." (1)

"Really? I haven't seen him like that since I had him tied up in my safe house in Germany." (2)

"And for that, monsieur, he still holds a grudge."

Garrett laughed. "Let me guess. He called you to tell you that the operation will be made public in the near future." Seeing the look on LeBeau's face, he said, "I have my sources. It's funny; Todd and I were just discussing this over a beer yesterday."

LeBeau was a bit disappointed. "I was hoping to break the news. Oh well."

"One thing I don't know is how much are they going to make public?"

"I don't know that either," LeBeau said. "But they are notifying everyone who was a prisoner at the camp, plus some crucial people in France and Germany. That way we can tell our families beforehand. I'm afraid once the faucet is turned on, there will be a flood."

"Nice analogy. How did your family take it?"

"At first they were angry that I didn't escape and come home; but after a while, they were intrigued and very proud. Especially when I spoke of some of the French people that helped get downed fliers to Allied lines. I left out some trips to Paris of course."

"Wise. So tell me, Louis. Do you think I can include some of this in my book? Or no?"

"And out yourself?"

"Well, I eventually want to go back to Florida and retire."

"I think that chapter will have to wait," Louis said in all seriousness.

"You're probably correct."

"Write it down, put it somewhere safe, and maybe in twenty or thirty years, after you retire, you can publish a sequel." Louis stood up. "I must be going. Come by the restaurant tonight. I've got ratatouille."

Garrett perked up. "I'll grab Todd and come by."

Louis began to open the door, but quickly turned. "I can't believe it slipped my mind. Wolfgang Hochstetter was poking around the camp. Olsen got the word and headed him off. Seems George Shamsky is out of prison and tracked Hochstetter down."

"Oh, that's just great." Garrett made a mental note to follow-up on this not so welcome news. "So Olsen tracked down Hochstetter and …

"Got him drunk." LeBeau shuddered at the image. "Now what will happen when he finds out? Who knows? Colonel, I mean General Hogan is coming over."

"Oh, if you talk to Hogan, tell him to stop off here. We can discuss old times."

"Bien sur."

After Louis left, Garrett picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Todd, get on over here. There's something I have to tell you."

* * *

(1) Yiddish. Means, well, fachatted. Overwhelmed. Messed-up. Kind of what happens when you find your in-laws are heading over with no warning, and the house is a mess. Or when your sister thought she thawed out a huge turkey, and it turns out it was five pounds of ground beef, before she owned a microwave, and no fresh turkeys at Wegmans, because it wasn't Thanksgiving. (yes, the turkey incident happened.)

(2) "SNAFU" (the first story to feature Boswell and Garrett, and other assorted characters named after the 1969 Mets.


	3. Chapter 3

_Truth is Stranger than Fiction_

_Chapter 3_

While close to one thousand men faced with the unenviable task of explaining to their loved ones how their time in Stalag 13 could be considered an unusual and often terrifying experience, Hogan was the star attraction at a hastily called family dinner meeting. Fortunately, Robert Hogan's wife knew about his clandestine activities, as she was also involved in the same line of work during the war. (1) His family took the news as well as he could expect. The grown-ups all started talking at once, while his young nieces and nephews at the kids' table looked bemused at the shenanigans taking place over at the large dining room table where the adults sat. Hogan looked down as his five year-old nephew, Michael, like a good soldier, crawled over to Hogan's side, and pulled at his uncle's pant-leg. The child dutifully saluted. Hogan returned it in kind, and then whispered, "report."

"Uncle Rob. I think you should have told them your secret one-at-a-time," the child said solemnly. He didn't totally understand what his uncle was doing in that jail, long before he was born, but he did realize that it was dangerous, and something that made him proud. He briefly wondered if he could bring the general back for another show-and-tell.

"Michael," Hogan's twelve-year old niece, Samantha, hissed. "Get back here."

"It's okay, sport. Stand up. The rest of you, too."

Michael stood up, as did the other children.

Hogan took his thumb and forefinger, and let out a loud whistle, silencing his large and noisy family.

"The children are behaving better than all of you."

"What do you expect, Rob?" his now-angry sister, Ruth, answered once the family quieted down. "We thought you were safe, and you could have been killed." His parents remained quiet, his mother's tears silently falling down her cheeks. Ruth approached Hogan, and stood mere inches away. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and then turned to face the rest of the family.

"I hoped you would be proud of the men under my command. They risked everything for me, and for the Allies. I wasn't concerned about myself. It was just as dangerous as flying in the B-17's, you know. And every day, I realized one small mistake could put a thousand men in front of…" Remembering the children, Hogan cut his sentence short. "You all know what I mean."

"I don't know what you mean, Uncle Rob." Michael's remark broke the ice. The five year-old was innocent; too young to know the true consequences of what could have become of his beloved uncle, and his uncle's special friends. Michael still played with the chemistry set Uncle Andrew had sent him last Christmas. His uncle Peter, who had a funny accent, had engaged the youngster with tales of kings and queens, as well as magic tricks. Uncle James had helped Michael open watches, radios and broken television sets, so that the child, as well as the older children, could see the inner workings. Uncle Brian, still in the army, had let Michael polish his medals. And finally, Uncle Louis and the children cooked up a storm in the kitchen, making a tremendous mess in the process.

"He means, Liebchen, that if he and his friends were caught making mischief, that they would have been sent to the Kommandant's office," his grandmother explained. "And received quite a licking." She looked at her son, who nodded slightly and smiled. "But they were very smart, and very brave, and they weren't caught. So, who wants dessert?"

After that effort to change the subject, the group of adults wisely calmed down. The children were sent off to play in another room, allowing the adults to continue the conversation. Slowly, Hogan explained how he had found himself unexpectedly thrown into a small, enlisted work camp, that due to its odd set-up and malleable Kommandant, invited escape, and later, the clandestine operation. He told amusing stories of balloons, baskets, and snowmen, and tempered the laughter with tales of death and destruction, being careful to not divulge certain details. By the end of the evening, Hogan's family, like all the families of the surviving POW's of Stalag 13, were proud of the ex-POW's, and comforted by the fact that their men had fought against the Nazi's throughout the entire war.

* * *

_Paris_

Due to the urgency of the situation, Hogan managed to catch a fairly quick flight to Europe. He stopped off in England to visit old friends, and then headed over to Paris to meet with a few of his former colleagues over dinner and wine in a safe room at the American embassy.

"More wine, General?"

"Call me Rob, Louie. You're family. Oh, that reminds me." Hogan reached into his wallet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. All the way from the states. Michael's recipe for French toast and a picture." He handed it to Louie, who unfolded the paper and studied it for a moment.

"I will have this framed," the Frenchman said, showing his pride at his young protegé's handiwork. Boswell and Garrett stole a glimpse at the paper. It made the two agents smile.

"So, our prodigal son has returned," Garrett said as he raised his glass in a toast.

"This part is easy. I always enjoy a trip to Paris."

"And your family?" Boswell asked Hogan.

"All at home going through all my old letters to see if they could decipher any signs of the truth." Hogan took a drink of the wine, sighing in contentment as the first sip slid down his throat, enveloping his body in warmth. "Nice, Louis. Thanks."

"You're welcome. So after Paris, you are heading to Germany?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I'm meeting Olsen, and then we have some people we really need to see."

* * *

_Essen_

Hogan paused outside the Essen police station, his uniform attracting interested looks from the passersby. Several American soldiers saluted as they walked past. His visit had not been planned in advance, but he knew the man he wanted to see was inside. He grinned before entering the building.

Olsen had accompanied the general. "What's so funny, sir?"

"Just thinking about everyone, and how they offered to ride shotgun on this visit. Like Hochstetter is going to try something in the middle of a police station."

"He won't be armed. I've seen to that," Olsen said. (2) He was in the middle of planning his return to the states, but considering he was the only member of Hogan's core group still in the military, he felt it was his duty to travel along with the general. Besides, he wanted to see Hochstetter's face. Hogan was reluctant to involve the rest of his men, insisting they should remain at home with their families.

"I'll tell you, sir. I think Klink took it all rather well."

"I think deep down he always knew. It doesn't excuse his behavior on a few occasions, especially with Roberts," Hogan recalled.

"Maybe he didn't realize Hochstetter would have the Group Captain eliminated."

"Riiighht. And I have a bridge to sell you. Klink was stupid, but not that stupid. Let's get this over with."

Hochstetter was in a bad mood. He had been in a bad mood ever since he had returned from Hammelburg, a jaunt that promised everything and delivered nothing. His afternoon spent with the American lieutenant yielded nothing; in fact, he seemed to recall that the officer was a useless drunk. Olsen appeared sullen and quiet, as if the recollection of his time spent in the prison camp had soured him on life. The two agents that Shamsky had spoken of could not be located. Hochstetter no longer had any pull with anyone other than the people in his own station. If anything, the American agents were probably somewhere in Washington, Seoul or Tokyo at this point. The one person that might have shed a light on the situation, Colonel Klink, refused to speak with him.

A commotion near the front of the squad room made the former Gestapo agent take notice.

"There's a general in the building!" exclaimed a secretary.

"What is he doing here? Get back to work, all of you, There's military all over the place!" Hochstetter screamed.

Another officer walked around to Hochstetter's desk and leaned over. "Word has it; he's here to see you."

"What would he want with…" Hochstetter's mouth hung open as he spied Robert Hogan and the American Lieutenant, Olsen, heading his way.

Hogan and Olsen stopped a few feet from the desk. "Hello Hochstetter," Hogan said, his face a portrait of both calm and slight amusement.

Hochstetter regained his composure and straightened up to his full height, which was still quite a bit shorter than Hogan's, making him feel lacking.

"Hogan," he said.

"Show some respect, Hochstetter," Olsen said.

"General Hogan. Is that better?" Hochstetter sneered.

"Have someplace we can talk?" asked Hogan, who was totally unaffected by Hochstetter's demeanor.

"There's an interrogation room down the hall."

Hogan and Olsen followed Hochstetter as the staff in the squad room watched; going back to work once they were out of sight.

"What is it you want?" Hochstetter asked with suspicion. Olsen's appearance alongside Hogan made him uncomfortable. He had never met the man until he ran into him by the fence surrounding Stalag 13, a meeting he now assumed was perhaps not a coincidence. "And what is the lieutenant doing here?"

"I always take the time to visit the men that were under my command in the prison camp," Hogan answered.

"I see. And you have developed a yearning for our chats and interrogations, and decided to pay me a visit for, how do you Americans say it? Old times' sake."

"No. I'm here in person so you can thank me."

"Thank you? For what?"

"For giving you fair warning. You see, something is being leaked to the press in the near future, and I didn't want to see you drop dead from a heart attack, or worse, lose your temper and do something you would later regret."

"I don't lose my temper," Hochstetter replied, eliciting a guffaw from Olsen, and a chuckle from Hogan.

"What is this man doing here," Hogan mimicked in a dead-on impression. "How did those rings of steel work out for you, Wolfgang?"

"I see your insolence is still your primary trait, Hogan. How did you get to be a general? I'm sure you must have angered a great deal of brass in your time."

"I was scheduled for a promotion before I got captured. Once I got everyone out of that stalag in one piece, no thanks to you, of course; it was fast-tracked."

"And what is being leaked to the press?" Hochstetter asked, steeling himself for the answer he knew was coming.

"You were smart, Hochstetter. But we were smarter. I'm Papa Bear."

* * *

_And so ends this final chapter, and the unusual story of how a brave, courageous pilot, and the men that followed him, fought for the Allies under the most incredible odds; saving many lives in the process. Their mission was to "assist all escaping prisoners, cooperate with all friendly forces, and use every means to injure and harass the enemy." We had the good fortune to work together, and years later, we received permission from the Pentagon to include their story in this memoir. The Gestapo agent, whose name has been kept secret, did not, as General Hogan had feared, get violent. Instead, he kept his composure, although as Olsen would testify, the policeman's face turned beet red, and then went pale. According to Olsen, the ex-Gestapo agent stood up and said. "Thank you gentlemen for making me aware of the press release. You know the way out." He left the interrogation room, walked back to his desk, and went back to work. He never spoke of his shame to anyone, and those who knew him were terrified of ever bringing it up to him in person. I know this sounds like a Hollywood plot, but as we now know, truth is stranger than fiction._

_Author acknowledgements: Stalag 13 chapters:  
_

_I would like to thank the following veterans for inviting me into their homes and freely discussing their memories of this period, some of which were not pleasant.  
_

_Andrew Carter, PhD, General Robert Hogan, James Kinchloe, Louis LeBeau, Peter Newkirk, Colonel Brian Olsen, Joe Wilson, Group Captain James Roberts, ret. Wilhelm Klink, Hans Schultz  
_

_And the following civilians: Heidi Schnitzer Olsen, Ruth Hogan Bradford, Michael Hogan Bradford, John Lehrman, Mavis Newkirk Lehrman, Dan Kinchloe, Ann Carter, Iris Kinchloe  
_

_Special thanks go to: My editor, fact-checker, and researcher, Susan Rubinstein (affectionately known as Snooky). Without her, this book would never have made it to the printers. And my former partner, Todd Boswell. Without his humor, bravery, and professionalism, I would never have survived the war, and the writing process.  
_

_Mitch Garrett  
_

* * *

_Chapter footnotes:  
_

_ (1) General Hogan's wife has asked to remain anonymous. It could be one of many, or perhaps one that did not appear in the TV series. Take your pick.  
_

_ (2) For a while after the war, German policemen were not allowed to carry firearms. I had trouble finding the exact information and dates. If anyone knows the exact dates, please let me know, so that I can update the chapter. Thanks. (Snooky)  
_

_The mission quote was taken from one of the episodes.  
_


End file.
